Bones In The Ground and Ghosts On The Street
by OhSoDeadly
Summary: The black submarket of zydrate is booming in the years following Rotti Largo's death, but as Graverobber discovers, things just aren't how they used to be - not in business matters, and certainly not personal ones.


"It's quick…it's clean…it's pure…"

Graverobber hummed the little ditty under his breath as he fossicked through the grey dirt of yet another poor wretch, lost to the big crushing wheel of industry that was GeneCo. This one was six months dead-barely long enough for the contaminants in the ground to seep into the body and start the production of raw zydrate - and had maybe a few shovelfuls of dirt tossed onto it, out of some perverse desire to observe the funereal rituals. Not all could afford the rites, Graverobber knew. The rites that would more or less keep the bodies safe from him and his ilk, the dashing and adventurous zydrate hustlers. No, not all could garner that sort of…protection.

And once again, that could be traced back to GeneCo. It was actually kind of funny, in a bleak, pathetic sort of way. Even as gangs of hired thugs patrolled the graveyards and landfills with a vengeance, they put plenty of added zeroes onto legal, licensed shelf zydrate and invariably drove the desperate and the stupid (and often a combination of the two) into the pallid arms of men like him. Street vendors. Dealers. The scum of the streets, who had managed to pull themselves up a little bit.

 _GeneCo signs the cheques of those guards, signs mine._ He was tempted to giggle maniacally, but decided against it. He'd indulged himself one too many times while on the job. Honestly, sometimes he looked back and got mighty embarrassed. Standing up in the middle of the damned place, screaming the word "graves" at the top of his lungs? Young and stupid, that had been him.

Now, well…he wasn't either of those things. The death of Rotti Largo eight years ago hadn't changed much, not really. People still wanted surgery, quick 'n' dirty, and with surgery came bids for painkillers. Demand for street zydrate had tripled in that time. He'd gone from eating twice a week to finding convenient sewer outflows where he could stash all of his ill-gotten gains. Business was booming, GeneCo was running steady under Amber Sweet's slightly more benevolent rule, and the repo men had gone from vicious mass-murderers to unfortunate necessities of the social order. Like ticket inspectors.

Didn't mean GeneCo was any less draconian when it came to those who broke their contracts though. No, Graverobber decided, as he finally uncovered part of a rotting skull, things were still pretty bad. But bad was what he thrived on, and hell, by now he was a cog in the machine, wasn't he? A captain of industry. Why, he was probably-

A crunch nearby, and he froze. He'd been doing this a long time and he could place almost any sound that happened in the graveyards. It hadn't been an insect, or an animal. That had sounded like the crunch of dirt underfoot, which meant a heavy boot. And of course, that meant GeneCo's bully boys.

 _Time to bail._ But fortune favoured the brave, so he inserted the needle, a practised motion he'd made a thousand times over. Slowly, the luminescent blue liquid filled the tube, and he willed it to go faster. Another crunch, and he bit back a curse. It wouldn't do to get caught now. He had a reputation to maintain, not to mention a life of crime.

After what seemed an eternity, the vial filled up all the way, and he yanked it out with a spurt of black ichor. With a sigh of relief, he sprang to his feet-

-and damn near crapped his pants. Barely twenty metres away from him stood a figure clad all in black, glimmering dully in the light of the searchlights at the graveyard's edge. Bristling with knives, guns and all manner of nasty shit. A helmet with a visor, the features inside hidden.

It was a repo man. Come for him. _For him!_

The absurdity-the sheer insanity of the situation-didn't even occur to him, not in that moment. He'd never so much as perused a GeneCo catalogue, not seriously anyway. He was 100% A-grade free range human flesh. None of that mattered, because the fucking _repo man was here._

Graverobber turned and ran. He paid no heed to the wandering searchlights, the distant tramp of boots, the eventual shout as he was noticed. No, none of that mattered, because the _fucking repo man_ -

Dimly, he heard a sinister scraping along the ground behind him, and knew that the bastard was in hot pursuit. He increased his pace, tried to get more speed out of those long legs, but in his heart he already felt the mind-numbing despair of someone who knows they're a goner. Outrun the deadliest assassins known to mankind? Not a chance in hell. He stifled a whimper, and kept running.

A hail of bullets raked a dead tree to his right, and he cursed, ducking down low. Damn, but it was hard to run fast like this. Had the repo man taken a shot and missed? No, the chances of them missing were about as high as his chances of buying a custom-made Amber Sweet designer vagina. Obviously the security forces had caught wind of him, and were trying, in their own inelegant way, to take him down and beat the repo men at his own game. _How nice of them. Blown away as opposed to getting vivisected._

A hole in the fence ahead, and a shallow drainage trench beyond that. He could head for the Waste Marsh, try to lose him amid the bitter fog and rusting husks of machinery. It was worth a shot. He didn't have many options at this juncture.

The hole in the fence was small and the edges jagged. No way would he be able to clamber through that before getting turned into a cold cut. No, this would take too long to clamber through it. No, this would require something…stupid. He gathered up the tattered flaps of his cloak, tried to stuff them into his trousers and run like hell all at the same time. Mentally, he was already regretting his next move.

More gunfire sounded behind him, and the panicked shouts of men who knew they were going to have to go back on unemployment if they didn't catch him. For some reason, the cacophony filled him with a vicious, ugly pride. _Good. Fuck you and fuck your jobs. You work for the man anyway._ Well, the woman to be more precise.

Heavy footsteps thumping behind him. It was now or never.

With a less-than-manly yelp, he kicked off the ground with both feet, and leaped towards the hole, hands outstretched and air rushing through the filthy strands of his hair. Elation filled him. He was going to make it! He-

-got as far as his waist. Then he was suddenly, painfully, stuck.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding…" He wriggled, and hissed as fire shot through his hips, pressed up against the shorn metal tips of the fence. Really? This was how he was going to buy it? Halfway to freedom, ass sticking out for all to see and no way to even spit out a last, defiant word before he was shot, or worse, stabbed by the _fucking repo man-_

Fear gave him a last bout of strength, and he strained as hard as he could against his containment, even as the fence cut deep tracks into his skin. Oh, that was funny, he thought bleakly. He might buy himself another minute or two, but at least he'd be all nice and bleeding for when the repo man was ready to start slicing and dicing. Hilarious!

A vice grip landed on his foot, and he nearly screamed. Instead, he lashed out with that foot, and felt it smash into something solid, but that also broke beneath the blow. The repo man's visor? God, he hoped so. He'd like to see the butchering freak move with an eyeful of glass shards. Hah, and then he'd need surgery…surgery…

 _Surgery….surgery…_ His heart rate slowed, regulated itself. _Surgery…surgery…_

It was almost a good thing, he reflected calmly, as the ever-present mantra echoed through his brain. He could face death with dignity now. Well, maybe not dignity – there was still the matter of the fence – but a sort of gravitas, yes? That was almost the same thing, and he wasn't exactly splitting hairs about it-

He broke from his own head for a second, because he noticed that he wasn't stuck in an uncomfortable horizontal position anymore. He was lying in foul water, muddy banks rising above him. His waist felt like a hedgehog had tried to fuck him, but he was otherwise fine.

He began to crawl. Inch by devastating inch, he crawled. He risked a glance over his shoulder, and saw a nightmarish black-clad figure trying to fit through the hole. The sight was so funny, he almost curled up and died right there. But the way things were going, he would probably curl up and die over _there._ Ha ha.

He crawled, through chemical waste and used syringes, to what might be freedom. A sudden flare of light from a chopper's spot-beam blinded him, but it quickly moved on, panning over the graveyard he'd just left, and just before darkness returned, he saw the end of the trench, barely twenty metres away. A small slope, rising sharply upward, and then away. Freedom.

He was so close. So close-

With the speed and deftness of a clack-bug, that same hand from mere moments before grabbed the scruff of his neck and dragged him into the air, coughing wetly. His vision blurred as the muck ran down his face, but then he was flung down again, brown water splashing as he landed on his back. When his vision cleared-

The repo man towered over him, a glove-sheathed fist drawn back ready to punch. The other held a nasty-looking metal spike, and Graverobber's stomach turned at the sight of it. He wondered whether or not he should close his eyes. Maybe it would be quick, like falling asleep.

 _And maybe Amber Sweet isn't carrying a raging case of herpes._

Well. He'd had a good run. And it was just details, in the end. Lots of clauses, addendums and additions. The fine print that only hastened the trip to the-

"Hey!"

The repo man turned, and Graverobber tried to look past him. A security guard was approaching, rifle trained on the pair of them, but the man was looking increasingly relaxed as he saw the two of them. He chuckled. "Damn, but you guys work fast. You wanna gut him or should I?"

The repo man did not reply. Merely stared the man down. The atmosphere quickly became tense again, and the guard warily raised his rifle. "Uh, hello? Anyone there?"

Nothing. Graverobber coughed. "Should I leave you two alone then?"

"Shut your motherfuckin' mouth!" the guard suddenly screamed, gun fully up and finger juddering on the trigger. Graverobber sighed. Apparently gallows humour was a foreign concept to some.

"If you won't do it…" The guard made to move past the repo man. "…then I will!" The gun was now pointing at Graverobber. "Fucking-"

The repo man's left arm shot out and impaled the guard on the spike. The man gagged, face turning pale, and toppled off the gleaming silver blade, now stained red. He joined the filth bobbing in the stagnant water, face down.

Graverobber gaped. Usually he was pretty quick on the uptake, with a quip for every occasion. But right now, he had nothing.

The repo man turned back to him and reached up to his helmet, and pulled something. There was a hissing release of steam, and the seals on the neck of the suit retracted. With a sharp yank, the repo man pulled the helmet off…and shook out her dark hair.

Graverobber stared, and something in his memory clicked. Years ago, in this same graveyard, a girl with a glass jar…

"Kid?" he whispered.

"You're getting slow, Graverobber," Shiloh said, lips upturned into a smile. "Took you this long to recognise your old friend."

-

"So…working for the woman now?"

They had quickly left the graveyard and trench behind, making their way back into the city. A few times they'd had close calls with GeneCo mercs, but Graverobber still knew the place like the back of his hand, and when that didn't suffice, the imposing repo man costume was enough to discourage the curious. They'd ran down alleyways and through tunnels for the better part of an hour before Graverobber felt like he could stop.

That didn't mean he was feeling relaxed. Far from it. The graveyard would be even harder to break into now, and he'd nearly been killed, which was a situation he'd prefer to avoid in future. And Shiloh…

Sure, he was kinda glad to see the kid again – you didn't really get to keep the same company around you for too long in this city – but mostly, he was wary. And suspicious as all hell. The naïve, vulnerable girl from years ago now working for the same people that had killed her dad? And as a licensed butcher, no less? The absurdity of it all made his head hurt.

That was why he'd made her stop here, near one of the old alleyways he'd used to bunk down in before he'd expanded into what was affectionately known as the "submarket" and found better places to crash. As he sat down on an old crate, wincing as pain shot through his joints, he looked the girl over with a jaundiced eye. Rather than sit, she stayed standing, her posture almost ramrod-straight. She surveyed the alleyway's entrance, and kept a close hand on one of the many weapons on her belt.

Then he took a closer look at her face. She had re-donned the helmet, but he could see her through the visor. She would be…what, in her mid-twenties by now? Still young. Still limber. But lines had cut deep tracks beneath her eyes and into her forehead. Her eyes were filled with…an almost stoic sadness. Like she was keeping everything under lock and key. The empty, dutiful life of a corporate assassin.

Graverobber pitied her.

"I am," she said shortly.

"Fun work, is it? Cutting open people because Amber's profit margin wasn't quite big enough? Leaving them to bleed out on the street?" He hadn't even realised his voice had risen until he stopped speaking. By his standards, he was practically shouting. Did he actually care all of a sudden?

"It's not like that," she said quietly. Not even rising to the bait. "I go after the worst ones. The rapists, the child molesters, the wife-beaters. Not everyone's some gallant working-class man who catches a bad break." She gave him a pointed look, and he grumbled under his breath. "Besides, it pays well. And I'm…" She exhaled. "Good at it."

Those last three words carried such an absence of emotion that he was surprised she hadn't turned into an infomercial drone for a second. But he wasn't going to let it go so easily. It couldn't be as simple as she was making it sound. Everyone knew GeneCo was dirty. Everyone…

"And what happens when they _assign_ you a target? Hm? What happens then?" He watched her retreat back into herself, head turning away from his questions, but he refused to relent. "What happens when some guy with terminal cancer can't make repayments on time? Or the single mother ends up in the shit?" He was standing now, fists clenched. "I knew the streets weren't for you, kid, but not like this. _Not like this."_

"And what was I meant to do, Graverobber?" Her head had snapped back now, and there was something like anger in her voice now. Anger like the corpses in the graveyard - deep-seated, festering, old. "Was I meant to stay inside my room, pretend to live a normal life and act like none of it ever happened? That my mother was killed in a feud between stupid, jealous men and that my dad thought that loving me meant poisoning me _for seventeen years?_ "

She advanced on him, until she had him up against the wall. She jabbed a finger into his chest. "Don't act like some saint. You're not. You're just another dealer on the street, a red flag in GeneCo's distribution scheme." She let her hand fall away, and she shook her head bitterly. "You're nothing."

Graverobber didn't even have enough for a smart-ass retort. He was too tired. Too everything. "Then why'd you show up tonight? Came to check up on your friendly neighbourhood zydrate hustler?"

She sighed, and stared at the ground. "I dunno. I…it'll sound stupid. Forget it."

"Whoa now." With some trepidation, he placed a hand on her upper arm. "The kid who used to go trawling through the graveyard for bugs has turned out to be a repo…woman. This night couldn't get any more stupid, believe me."

Shiloh gave a little laugh at that, and looked at him wryly. "I thought…it might be like old times. I'd knew you'd be going back there for a long time, but I tonight…I wanted us to get into some trouble. Give those rent-a-cops something to work for, make our escape…" She kicked a rock, and it took him a moment to realise she was being bashful. "You know. The graverobber and the kid, getting up to no good."

Part of him wanted to laugh at that, and maybe clap her on the shoulder, and say that he would have liked that. The part of him that, once upon a time, had sneaked through the graves like a pale-faced mole, fucked countless women for a vial of zydrate and screamed in the middle of a guarded cemetery.

Young and stupid. But now…

The pain in his joints wasn't going away. Time was catching up, every single day that went past, and as much as he wanted to sing and dance it away, there was no stopping the inexorable march, the slow decay. He was getting old, and life was suddenly more precious.

That she had dared to put his in jeopardy over a stupid fucking thing like _thrill-seeking_ made him mad. Furious. Who the hell was she to do that? To think this was all a game?

In the darkness of the alleyway, he nodded coldly. "I get it. Fuck me, so long as you get your kicks, right?"

He felt a savage, vindictive pleasure seeing her face drop, and for a moment, she looked like the scared, pale girl from so many years ago. "Graverobber….no…"

"You'd better go." He sat back down on the crate, hands resting on his kneecaps, face set in stone. "Amber probably wants you to vivisect a seventeen-year old or something, I wouldn't want to keep you."

He almost expected Shiloh to hit him after that. Her fists did clench, and there was a long, drawn-out pause between breaths, but eventually she nodded, the movement crisp and precise. "Right. Good luck to you then." She turned on a heel and made to leave, but before she did, she spoke, facing away.

"I never thanked you for saving my life that night."

He sniffed. "Forget about it. Buy me a glass of water some time and we're quits."

Silence. Then-

"I dream every night. About killing Amber, and Pavi, and Luigi, and all the rest. Gutting the entire fucking company in one night, until blood rains down from the skyscrapers. And when I do, my dad appears. And Blind Mag, and my mom. And they all weep tears of blood, until I drown."

Graverobber twitched, but said nothing.

"The day I ran, I took all the money dad had ever saved. I used it to buy a new life. I started small, working remotely. Taking targets by phone and database selection. I've only ever seen Amber twice, and both times she's been so drugged up she doesn't recognise me. I'm safe. I'm hiding in plain sight. I'm waiting."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I can't tell it to anyone else." She laughed again, but this time it was a mirthless thing of sorrow. "I'm alone. The only one who knows…who remembers…is you."

Of course he did. All the bloody feuding, all the genetic crusading…it was etched on his memory, a blood saga that would never be rivalled again.

She paused. "If you want to be mad at me, I understand. I won't bother you again." She made to leave, heavy black boots thudding on the concrete. Graverobber watched her leave, chewing his lip, and then sighed inwardly.

Ah, hell. He was gonna regret this.

"Kid." He stood up, and rummaged around in his pocket. Eventually he pulled it forth. A tube of lipstick.

At her questioning gaze, he shrugged. "Belonged to Amber. If you ever get into trouble again, leave a mark on this wall here. I'll be by the next day, with…help." He pressed it into her hand, and scowled. "We're not having a moment here, kid. Just take it before I die of embarrassment."

She slipped it into a pouch on her belt, and smiled. An honest, genuine smile this time. "Thanks."

"Yeah, yeah, you're welcome." He sat back down again, for what felt like the umpteenth time. His head was really starting to pound. "If you're gonna go, go now. I need a lie down."

He lifted his head. "Kid?"

There was no-one there. Just a few scraps of paper, blowing in the breeze. A light acid rain began to fall, and he ambled out of the alleyway, rubbing his head with annoyance. Well, he didn't feel like moving right now, so what the hell was he gonna do?

A scuffing noise caught his attention, and he saw a couple of fishnet-clad girls totter down some nearby stairs, barely conscious. He grinned, and felt a sense of confidence he'd not had in a while. He swaggered towards them, already reaching for the ever-familiar tools of the trade…

Times were getting on. People changed, the city changed, and even he changed. But he'd made it this far by having a playbook. By knowing how to play this city of junkies and mercs and corporate fatcats against each other, and turning a profit into the bargain.

Life could get complicated. Ghosts showed up, old memories needing to be put to rest. But he knew how to win. He knew the solution.

And it came in a little glass vial… 


End file.
